Thomas watched the retreating figures of the First Mate and Jax with a look upon his face of grim befuddlement. He caught Antonia’s slight look of defeat in the matter, and Thomas’ reply came without so much as a rise of his brow. If Antonia didn’t have a clue as to the cause of Nicolette’s flight, than Thomas [i]certainly[/i] hadn’t the slightest idea. 

The Commander’s introduction of the Frenchman called Thomas’ attention from his vanished crewmates, and back to his figurative chess match. With a smile lifted with wires of disdain, Thomas shook Captain Poutreau’s hand as the Commander presented him. He found the Frenchman’s grasp to be clammy and paltry—a decidedly French grip that reminded Thomas of a newt or gecko clutching at his hand. 

As the Commander continued on, edifying the small group of their recent exchange, Thomas found himself chuckling in return. 

“You are indeed correct, my friend. I was speaking of my crew’s loyalty and fortitude just scant moments ago, and I adhere to the notion still. But, let us be frank,” Thomas said opening his hands to the Frenchman and the Commander alike, “French, er, shall we say…[i]puanteur[/i], can overwhelm even the most hardened of noses, don’t you agree?”

Thomas aimed the sweet smile that now crossed his cheeks fully to Captain Poutreau. The mention of his having women amongst his crew, and all the insinuations that accompanied it, did not sting Thomas’ ego in the least. Though, the fact that this French toad of a man would deign himself worthy of comment upon Thomas’ crew, conjured up the urge to choke the man with the ebony ends of his own wig. 

“Ah, my dear Captain,” Thomas replied, “it is indeed an odd thing for the master of a ship to be seconded by a woman, that much I [i]wholly[/i] understand. Why, it has brought me to a level of gossip in the town that I simply never fathomed!” 

Thomas began fanning himself theatrically with his hand, acting as if the very notion of his ship being the brunt of Port Royal’s social commentary as utterly exhausting. After several short puffs of breath, Thomas took a languid step closer to the Frenchman.

“In my case, however, I must confess that the arrangement is quite liberating. You see, it is [i]so[/i] very tedious coveting the loins of the officer beneath you…” Thomas paused to giggle tremulously, “…I mean my last Second was such a strapping young lad, I could not but stare and dream all the hours of the day. Almost ran my poor ship aground I did! Oh it was so very unprofessional, and horrid for business.”

Another step brought Thomas decidedly [i]too[/i] close for societal acceptance with the Frenchman. He looked into the man’s eyes for a long moment before slowly shifting the strange and starry gaze to the Commander.

“Old friends, Robert? You [i]would[/i] describe us that way, wouldn’t you?” Thomas took a step back, much to the conspicuous relief of the completely unnerved Captain Poutreau. He ‘tsked tsked’ towards the Commander, shifting his expression to one of longing and remembrance. 

“I suppose it was foolish to expect more from such a high born man. I am not but a common sea cur, a social pariah when compared to such an illustrious gentleman.” Thomas emphasized his words with a light wave of his hand, indicating the entirety of the Commander’s rigid body. 

Thomas dropped his voice to a whisper, though one loud enough for all in the group to plainly hear. He lifted his eyes to the Commander, pursing his lips with an effeminate snort of his nose.

“Well, no matter now, we’ll always have that night in Saint Kitts, won’t we Robert?”